Youth in Rebellion
by kototyph
Summary: AU. Young Arthur Kirkland is being rebellious. He's sick of rules, tired of being good, and just wants to change himself for the dirtier. So why isn't anyone but this beardy French frog taking him seriously...! ? M in future. Read Disclaimer!
1. Chapter One: Like Kurt Cobain!

**Youth in Rebellion  
**Chapter One: Like Kurt Cobain!  
larussophile  
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
» Rating: T  
» On Going(WIP)/One-off/Series: WIP  
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance  
» Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations  
» Pairing(s): Arthur/Francis (England/France)**  
» Disclaimer:** I don't own APH. I don't own this title. I don't even own this plot! It's a (relatively) shameless rip-off of a manga by Yukimura, "Usotsuki wa Dareda (spin-off)". But.. it was just too perfect... I couldn't resist. Following that storyline, then, there will be three chapters, and one extra special bonus chapter with the smex in it. I am nothing if not benevolent.

* * *

_I skipped school for the first time. _

The doors sprang open in front of him, and the mass of commuters crashed like an avalanche onto the platform, with him shoved and pushed along until he reached a calm eddy in the stream of people.

_I rode the train in the opposite direction, and got off at a station I didn't know._

He stared blankly after the end of the departing train, hardly noticing the rapidly emptying space around him as the businesspeople swarmed the street exits. "What to do first?" he wondered aloud in the fading din.

_I wanted to change into someone who wasn't me._

"Buy clothes, dye my hair..."

_If I stay as I am now, I'll remain unable to do anything._

"Hair first."

* * *

"_Pa... pardonnez-moi?_"

"Make me look like Kurt Cobain!"

Whatever response Arthur had been expecting, it wasn't the barely muffled "Pfffft!", followed by a completely uncontrolled guffaw, that came out of the stylist's mouth.

The small little salon, unremarkable but for the garish green neon that sparkled over it even in the morning light. It had caught his eye, and he'd strode in without a second thought. He really should have paused for that second thought. _I'm… being laughed at? _

"Sorry, _mon petit_," still laughing, in an accent thick enough to spread on toast, "You really caught me off guard! Ahaha, _c'est magifique!_" The man pressed tears of mirth from the corners of his blue, blue eyes and smiled hugely down at him.

_Was it a strange request? I was being serious. _Arthur managed a less-than-assertive, "Um, you're being really rude..." He mentally added, _You bloody frog, _irrationally annoyed at the accent, height difference, untidy ponytail, straggly beard—really, everything.

_"Je m'excuse_, don't get mad," the Frenchman chuckled, his tall, broad form still shaking with suppressed laughter. "Just, hearing _that_ from someone wearing such a high-class school's uniform... with such a, a _serious_ expression..."

Arthur slapped a hand over insignia stitched into his lapel. "What? You know my school from my uniform?"

The Frenchman waved a hand. "You could say it's part of the job... or, _un passe-temps._ What, you are 'ditching'?" Arthur flinched, and the man grinned that vaguely lecherous grin again. "_Non, c'est bon_. I did it all the time when I was your age." The man shrugged, and continued simply, "There are times I want to change too."

For a moment, their eyes met and held and Arthur felt the shock of having his own innermost desperate thoughts echoed back at him from someone as unlikely as this arrogant, stubbly, mad Frenchman. The man stared impassively back for a second, two…

Before his face split wide into that sly smirking grin again. "But, if the Kurt Cobain look is what you want, we will need to do something with those eyebrows of yours, _mais non, mon petit_?"And he was off laughing again, the bloody great buffoon. Arthur'd hardly known the man a minute and he already hated him.

Arthur heard a muffled, "Ah! Wait!" as the door slammed closed behind him, but he had already stormed out into the street and away, all but blind with impotent rage, and, though he refused to acknowledge them, angry tears. _Bloody- beardy French frog! Who the hell do you think you are, trying to stop me! There's nothing laughable about it!_

_Why does no one take me seriously...?_

_

* * *

_

It was, unfortunately, the same story everywhere. One woman gave him hour-long lecture on the dangers in playing hooky, and stylist after stylist gave him the same stupid excuses: his hair wasn't long enough, the color wouldn't suit him, and where were his parents anyway?

His parents. Right.

"_Arthur, I'm asking you a favor. Please be good, okay? Be a good boy for your Mum."_

No one else mentioned his eyebrows, at least.

Arthur hunched in on himself, arms folded tightly against the chill in the air as night settled. As he trudged by them, streetlights lit themselves in a sudden dull orange blaze. He'd been walking for hours, going from store to store, place to place. He'd bought clothes, tons of grungy, awful clothes, and chains and body jewelry he didn't have the piercings for. But he'd get them! He'd gone into some seedy little bar and ordered dinner, and then had been too squeamish to eat more than a bite of it. He'd tried to get a beer and had been laughed out by the bartender and patrons; he hadn't had the guts to try another. So he walked, and seethed, greasy morsel and anxiety tying hard knots in his queasy stomach.

_I JUST WANT TO CHANGE!_

Maybe she'd actually noticed he was gone. Maybe she was frantic with worry, he thought with some vicious satisfaction, kicking a can into the street as he waited for a light to change. Serves her right. The fact that he had no idea where the train station was anymore, and no real idea of even where _he_was had nothing to do with his decision to spend the night out. None at all. He tried to suppress a shiver by clutching himself harder, and glanced around. His eyes fell on a glaringly lit all-night convenience store, and his sick frustration eased a bit. If no one would dye his hair for him, he could do it himself. Ha! Amazing that it hadn't occurred to him before.

Once inside, he marveled at the selection and the price. Getting it done professionally would have cost him, what, fifty pounds? But look here, and here! These were ten quid, and guaranteed 'salon-quality results'! But, what color was Cobain's hair? Was it 'Blaze Blonde'? 'Light Toffee'? Which brand? Highlights?

"Oh! Kurt!"

Arthur jerked straight, arms filled with boxes, and found himself face to face with the frog stylist from that morning. The stupid bastard was smiling _that smile_, _again,_and Arthur felt a scorching blush try to work its way up his face and after a moment of frozen mortification, spun around to march away in a hopefully dignified snub.

"Ah, hey! Please wait!"

It was ruined by the little squeak he made when the man grabbed his arm. "Let go!" he yelped, trying to jerk out of the hold.

"I wanted to apologize-"

"_Let g_-!" but the motion had already loosened his grip on the boxes and once one went, he lost his grip and they all came tumbling down.

"Sorry, sorry! Let me," and before Arthur could think to grab after them, the man had crouched down to pick a box up. Turning the box to the light, the corner of his mouth quirked. He looked up with a raised eyebrow. "So… down to doing it yourself, then?"

"So what!" Arthur yelled, losing the battle with his blush. "It's none of your bloody business, is it?"

Arthur flinched back as the man abruptly stood, and let out a startled gasp as he reached out to rub a lock of Arthur's hair between his fingers. He was suddenly close enough for Arthur to feel his body heat in the cool chill of the store, and smell his cologne... something heady, and very masculine. Arthur swallowed, eyes lodged on the pearly buttons unclasped at the open vee of the man's shirt. "H-hey... what're you..."

"Your hair… you have never dyed it before, have you, _mon petit_?" the man mused quietly. "And it's a bit short for Kurt Cobain. No matter what you do with this, you will not resemble him."

At that, Arthur jerked his head away from the man. "Enough already! Why... _why is everyone trying to get in my way_?" he shouted, not caring who heard him. The Frenchman looked bewildered, which only made Arthur more furiously embarrassed. He tried to shove past him, and in the process hit a towering display of paper towels. An arm around his waist yanked him back into the Frenchman's warmth and the toppling packages bounced harmlessly on the marbled linoleum in front of him.

"...please be more careful," the man said mildly. Arthur opened his mouth to retort-

-and his abused, empty stomach chose that moment to make its complaints known, as plainly and loudly as it could.

There was a short silence.

"Pfffft!"

"Instead of holding it in til you make weird noises, just go ahead and laugh!" Arthur growled, hands over his face in complete humiliation.

"_Je m'excuse... m'excuse..._" the man said breathlessly, still racked with suppressed laughter. "Ah, _mon petit_, _trop_ _charmant! Je t'adore!_"

Arthur, expression dangerously close to a heavy pout, wiggled pointedly in his grasp, and the man released him—only to cup his face and tilt it up towards his own.

His hands were so warm.

"If you really want to dye it, come to my place."

"Eh?"

"As an apology, I'll do it for free, _d'accord_?"

"Eh?"

"And let's get something to eat on the way, _mon petit_, since eating alone is so lonely."

"Eh?"

* * *

The 'getting something on the way' involved stopping off at a small bistro where the maitre d' had greeted the Frenchman with hugs and loud, full-on kisses. The chef, a small and slender Italian man, threatened to do something physically impossible with a spatula and the men had separated, laughing. The other man caught sight of Arthur standing uncertainly in the doorway and said something in Spanish to the Frenchman, with much waggling of eyebrows. The salacious tone made Arthur's ears burn, but the man just laughed. He was always laughing, Arthur thought petulantly. What the hell was so funny?

"Antonio, please! This young man just wants to look like Kurt Cobain!"

"_Sinceramente? _Take an extra helping, it could take all night!"

Arthur wanted to punch him, he really did, but the food being ladled by the bad-tempered chef into takeaway containers smelled _so_ divine, and he was very hungry. Hungry enough to ignore the pat on the ass the Spanish maitre d' gave him on the way out, especially once he heard the angry voice of the chef shouting something about stupid, philandering Spanish fishbait.

They made one more stop, to a liquor store. "Lush," Arthur muttered under his breath as they exited with a six-pack and several bottles of wine.

"Ah, but _mon petit_, it is just as lonely to drink alone as to eat alone," the Frenchman said with a wink.

An hour, a meal, and four beers later-

"Ahahahaha, beer is tasty!"

"You know, _mon petit,_" said the Frenchman thoughtfully, taking a slow drag on his cigarette, "Your personality… she changes quite a bit when you have had a few."

Arthur pointed an accusing, wavering finger at the the somewhat blurry face across the table. "Stop calling me that! My name is Arthur, Reginald, _Kirkland,_you bloody beardy frog, and you'd better remember it!"

The man looked amused. "Well, Monsieur le Arthur Reginald Kirkland, my name is certainly not 'you bloody beardy frog'. It is Francis."

"It would be," Arthur mumbled into his newly-opened fifth can.

"_Pardon_?"

Arthur took a hue swig and nearly choked on it. "N-nothing…"

"Sooo," said Francis after a lull, "What was M. Kirkland doing, ditching school all day? Especially such a high-ranked school?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Arthur grinned brightly. "I was out to do _bad things_!"

Francis gazed at him in bemusement. "And Kurt Cobain?"

Arthur smacked a hand down on the table. "Yes, exactly! Here, look!" He dived into the shopping bags he'd collected during the day and drew out a shirt that read, "**Fuck your uncle**!" in bleeding red script. "Today, I say goodbye to the old me! From now on, I'm hardcore rock and grunge!"

There was another incredulous silence, into which Francis said with the utmost dryness, "_Oui_, I see this."

The sarcasm wasn't thick enough to penetrate Arthur's by this point wildly drunken state. He went on. "I've always been living on the strict straight and narrow, always doing whatever the fuck I'm bleedin' told... well, no more!"

"No more, eh?"

"That's right!" he declared. Faltering a bit, he continued, "I... I want to get dirty once in a while...!"

From nowhere, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and Arthur blinked rapidly, alarmed. However good a listener the man was being, he was NOT going to cry in front of _Francis_. He wasn't.

"My mum..."

When the rest wasn't forthcoming, Francis took another draw on his cig and gently prodded, "Your... mother?"

"She's always stopping me-but she does whatever she wants herself!"

"Ahh," said Francis, as though a great mystery of the universe had been solved. Arthur nodded, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically as the world titled a bit. "She's an actress."

"_Oui?_"

"Ou- I mean, yes," Arthur said. "She asks me to be good, not to shame her, but _she's the one who shames me._"

Francis tapped his ashes into an empty beercan. "Today was just to spite her, then?"

"Exactly." Francis got it, he really did. "Exactly..."

"_Arthur..._

"_Arthur, its gotten to the point where your father and I are splitting up._

"_But it doesn't really matter, does it? You were never attached enough to call him 'Father', were you? It'll be just us again._

"_What? If there's something you want to say, say it._

"_You're really not cute at all."_

"When it comes to her," Arthur told the can in his hand, "I can't say anything. That's why I want to change."

He looked up at Francis, who was smiling _again_-but softly. Affectionately.

"Then, Arthur," the man said, taking the cigarette from his mouth. "I'll collaborate with you." He stuck the unlit end between Arthur's surprised lips, fingers lingering on his face. "Shall I teach you something wicked, from start to finish?" he purred darkly, leaning closer until his face filled Arthur's vision. "Alcohol, or cigarettes... or drugs, or sex?"

"... Francis," whispered Arthur weakly, suddenly very, very aware of how close they were, how isolated, and how easy it would be for this man, this stranger really, to... to— do something nasty to him, or nasty with him, and oh well now, where had that thought come from? It was true he was trying to be dirty, and doing something like THAT would quite be the dirtiest thing ever, but there was a thing such as common decency, wasn't there? Francis's cigarette was hanging between his lips still, and what was he supposed to do? Take a puff? But he'd never smoked before in his life and OH MY GOD, an indirect kiss! He was, in fact, sharing an indirect kiss with the man already, at that moment! Now _that_ was dirty. It was very dirty. Still, actually kissing would be better—dirtier! He meant dirtier. Although, Francis was a bit beardy. He wasn't completely sure how he felt about that. Ergh, ergh, what to say, what to do?

Almost accidentally, Arthur leaned forward, just a few centimeters.

And with that small movement Francis sat back, somewhat emphatically, and took his cigarette with him. "_En plaisantant, mon petit._ Only joking."

"Wa?" said Arthur, a bit dazed. His heart, as if it had stopped, was all of a sudden pounding loudly in his ears.

Francis shook his head and breathed out a long stream of smoke. Irrationally, he seemed suddenly… unsettled. He made a sharp gesture with his hand. "Drugs are fine, I suppose, but cigarettes are a no-no." A nervous chuckle. "Small thing you already are, you will not grow at all if you smo—" A faint electronic ring sounded somewhere in the house, and Francis nearly leapt to his feet. "Ah, the phone! Excuse me for a moment, M. Kirkland."

He padded out of the room, leaving Arthur alone with his pounding heart.

"That was... odd," he told his beer can, his voice having acquired a disconcerting breathiness.

_What exactly am I doing here again?_

_He laughed at me._

_But..._

_He understands. And he's the first, ever, to not get in my way._

_He's a good person..._

His eye caught on the smoke lazily drifting up to the ceiling from the cigarette, balanced on an empty beer can. He reached out and took it, attempting to hold it in two fingers and almost dropping it into his lap. From an indirect kiss to a real kiss…?

"Very dirty," he said aloud, and from the doorway Francis popped his head in and said, "_Quoi, mon petit_?"

"Eeep! _Ack!_ HOT! HOTHOTHOT-!"

"Arthur!"

"MY LEGS!"

"What? _Fils de pute_!"

"The cigarette-!"

All of the sudden, Arthur found himself airborn and could only clutch at Francis's neck as he was sped to the bathroom.

"Your pants, take them off."

"What?" Arthur squeaked.

"_Take off your pants_!"

After a few confused moments and a few slaps and smacks, Arthur sat, ears burning as Francis aimed the spray attachment of his showerhead at his knees where two symmetrical marks showed where he'd been burned. "You want to smoke that much?" the man asked dryly.

"No!" Arthur retorted hotly. "But the cigarette fell... and I thought, the carpet..."

Francis sighed heavily. "Despite your tame appearance, you really are a handful, _cher_ Arthur."

Arthur would have yelled something back, but, unbidden, his mother's voice came to his mind. "_Just be quiet! Quiet! You're bothering me!" _

All that came out was a thready, "...sorry..." as the tears that had been dogging him all day pricked his eyes, burning like acid.

"Eh? No... look." Francis knelt, so that he looked up into Arthur's downturned face. "Being troublesome can also be charming, _oui?_I think you are very charming, Arthur. A little trouble, but I like your type of trouble."

"Francis..." Arthur mumbled. "I- ngh. Ngh..."

_The reason I cried..._

_Is probably because the things I wanted to hear were more important than the things I wanted to say._

"Ah, _cher_ Arthur," Francis sighed, the words making a low rumble in the broad chest that Arthur had buried his face in. The Frenchman peeled him away from himself very gently, and cupped his crying face in his hands. "How do I get you to stop crying, _mon cher_?"

"Mmph," Arthur answered, with a miserable little hiccup.

"_Tellement adorable_," he whispered, and bent to kiss at a tear track. Arthur stilled, shock breaking through his sobs as Francis continued, using his lips and then tongue to clean the tears from his face.

"Ah..."

"_Je m'excuse_," Francis said quietly, lips moving against his forehead. "Was that terribly disgusting?"

"No," Arthur mumbled, addressing the floor. "It felt... good."

"I'm glad." Francis pulled back. "It's not good to hold things in, _mon petit_. If you can't say the things you want to say, you'll get stressed."

Before Francis could move further away, Arthur grabbed at his pant leg, tugged. "Francis... please do more."

"Eh?"

"I want... more," Arthur repeated, daring to look up into his face.

As he watched, surprise broke into that stupid, lecherous, mile-wide grin, and Francis purred, "Just one kiss, then."

* * *

Arthur hadn't realized it at the time, having gone in the back, but Francis's apartment was directly over his salon. After many 'just one' kisses and one knee-meltingly embarrassing/arousing moment when Francis had noticed Arthur's erection through his tightie-whities, the two of them got down to the business of making Arthur look, if not like Kurt Cobain, then at least someone different. Changed.

"Uwah," Arthur said to the stranger in the mirror, reaching up to touch the golden flecks that flashed through his hair in the light.

"The bleached blond would not have been a good choice for overall _coloeur_," Francis lectured. "In small amounts, it blends with your natural darker tone, but lightens the overall effect. The cutting, it was a bit tricky, considering how short your hair."

"Mmhmm," Arthur agreed absently, entranced by his own image. Francis cocked an eyebrow.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Mmhmm."

"Eyebrows."

"What?"

Francis smirked. "_Rien, rien_. I'm glad you like it."

Arthur twined a lock around his finger, watching it glint in the overhead light. "It's so different from how I imagined it... I thought I wanted to be grungy."

"And you haven't changed that much?"

Arthur spun in his chair to face the Frenchman, eyes wide. "No, I changed! I'm really happy! You gave me such a clean feeling...!"

Again with the 'pffft!' noise, Arthur thought with some annoyance. "That, _mon cher_, is the most funny thing I have heard all day."

"No, it's true! I feel like I can say anything."

"Bon, tres bon. Go and, as they say, knock the socks off of your mother."

"I like you! Please go out with me!"

"…eh?"

"I mean it!" Arthur said in a rush, a giddy tide of terrified courage bolstering him in the face of Francis's incredulous stare. "You've given me such strength!"

And there was that smirk again. "Fine."

"Fine!" Arthur growled. Paused. "Uh, fine?"

Francis's smile was a _very_ dirty thing. "_Oui_. Fine. As long as you grow at least another three centimeters... _there_."

Arthur blushed until he could feel the roots of his highlighted hair smarting. "I-I'll do my best!"

Then, "...why?"

"Because, _mon petit_," Francis turned to walk back upstairs. "I, am a catcher."

"...!"

* * *

Ta da! As you know from the disclaimer, having read it THOROUGHLY, this is the first of three chapters. Ah, that manga is the cutest.

* * *

It just occured to me that a few French translations might be in order... hmm...

- mon petit - literally, 'my little', but that sounds weird as fuck in English. More like, 'kid', 'child', etc.

- trop charmant - too charming

- cher - dear. Girls are 'chere', and 'ma petite'

- fils de pute! - son of a bitch!

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	2. Chapter Two: Two Centimeters Short

**Youth in Rebellion **  
Chapter Two: Two Centimeters Short  
larussophile  
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
» Rating: T  
» On Going(WIP)/One-off/Series: WIP  
» Classification(s): Humor, Romance  
» Warnings: Violence, Language, Sexual Situations  
» Pairing(s): Arthur/Francis (England/France)  
» Disclaimer: I don't own APH. I don't own this title. I don't even own this plot! It's a (relatively) shameless rip-off of a manga by Yukimura, "Usotsuki wa Dareda (spin-off)". But.. it was just too perfect... I couldn't resist. Following that storyline, then, there will be three chapters, and one extra special bonus chapter with the smex in it. :-) I am nothing if not benevolent.

* * *

Into the silence of the very early morning, a cellphone rang on a nightstand. The high pile of blankets in the bed next to it twitched, and grunted. The insistent, grating ring continued, prompting an angry groan, and the barely discernible figure of a person stuck a hand out from under several layers to fumble for the offending, noise-making object. After a few minutes, more ringing and much more mumbled cursing, the phone was silenced. The hand retracted, and there was quiet.

Another annoyed grumble, and the hand returned to the nightstand, patting around on its surface until it fell on the tight coil of a tape measure. The tape was pulled under the covers, and the pile rustled and wiggled as the boy at the bottom of it... measured.

After a moment, the pile was shoved violently to the side and one Arthur Kirkland was revealed, wearing a scowl that could have curdled milk. "Bloody, buggering hell," he whispered. He flung the tape away from him, into the dim, soft darkness of his bedroom, and sighed heavily.

The window was cracked open from the night before, and the room was cooler for it. Through the open pane birdsong and the sweet smell of a spring morning seeped into the room. There was still some time before he had to get up for school, and so he tugged the pile of comforters back over him, twisted in them like a caterpillar in an extremely bulky cocoon and prepared to doze.

Or mope. Arthur's eyes blinked open and he glowered at the blank expanse of his wall. Well, what exactly had he been expecting? Some kind of, of magical growth spurt, from one night to the next? There were pills for this kind of thing on late night television, but Arthur had never understood the attraction until this very moment.

Damn that pervert, anyway.

But really, Arthur thought gloomily, damn _him_, for not being able to do this one thing Francis wanted.

* * *

When he came to the salon that evening, the 'FERMÉ' sign was already up and Frenchman was behind the counter, counting out piles of bills. "Ah, Arthur," he said, looking up as the door jingled. "Sorry, not quite finished with this. Go on up." He fished in a pocket and slid his key across the counter to him. "Do you think you could start the water for the pasta, _mon petit_?"

Enough time had passed that they were comfortable like this, sharing dinner a few times a week and occasionally for other suitably friendly activity. Nothing really dramatic. Nothing, truth be told, really romantic. It was driving Arthur a bit crazy to be honest, as their behavior with each other could not really be classified as _dating_. But they were dating. Right? Francis was his... boyfr-? Ergh, no, that sounded awful. Lover? No, because Arthur didn't _measure up_. Significant other person? Bloody hell, it sounded like code.

And what was he to Francis?

"Would you like me to make dinner, then?" he asked, rather than the _Tell me what you think of me, RIGHT NOW!_that wanted to erupt.

That jerked Francis's attention from the calculator he'd been using. "_Mon petit_, I am deathly frightened of you in my kitchen alone as it is. Do you not remember what happened last time?"

Who knew that yorkshire puddings burned purple? "I'll follow the recipe."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "You know I do not cook from recipes."

"Please?" Arthur wheedled. "I've been getting better. You said so yourself."

"Better does not mean good." But a reluctant smile was flickering around his mouth.

"I want to cook for you," Arthur said, widening his eyes a bit and blinking.

Francis chuckled, and leaned in to kiss his forehead. "_Mon petit charmeur_, I cannot refuse such a look from a boy who normally never stops scowling at me." He flicked his nose. "But, start the water first, please. At least you will have something to throw on the flames."

He turned his attention back to the money, and Arthur indulged in a "Hmph!" before trudging up the stairs to the apartment.

By now, Arthur knew Francis's kitchen very well, and felt it reflected the man's eclectic personality to a tee. Odd spices crammed the cabinets, the plates were all weirdly-shaped, handmade glazed pottery from some artist friend, and the fridge was piled high with fresh bits of everything. Herbs grew in fragrant profusion on the windowsill.

In a cabinet on the far wall, a small collection of ancient cookbooks was nearly subsumed by jars and bottles. He pulled one out at random and opened to a middle page.

French. He should have expected that.

It took some digging, but waving away powdery clouds of nutmeg and cloves he finally had a cookbook, in English, with fairly simple recipes. Arthur discarded his uniform jacket and tie and rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbow. After his first experiments, Francis had said in sincere and perfect horror that he could never date a man who couldn't cook. So Arthur cooked. Practice made perfect, right? In his case, practice also involved the fire department on a more or less regular basis, but that would change. Eventually.

Close to an hour later, Francis's footsteps echoed up the stairwell and sent him scrambling for the last presentation plate. He slid into his chair with enough force that it rocked just as the doorknob turned, and the Frenchman warily poked his head into the apartment.

"I thought I smelled smoke," he said suspiciously.

"It was nothing!" Arthur said brightly. "Come in! Eat!"

There was a bit of a breathless moment as Francis seated himself, picked up a spoon, and took a delicate bite of the colorful array splattered across the plate.

"... _pas mal_," the man judged, with a grudging note of surprise.

"What the bloody hell does that mean?" Arthur cried.

Francis gestured broadly with the spoon, adopting a lecturing tone. "It is acceptable. Overdone, a bit greasy, and far too salty, but, it is not on fire. You are learning."

Arthur let out his breath in an explosive whoosh and dug in to his own portion. "Well, it tastes great to me," he mumbled around a mouthful.

Francis shuddered. "We will have to work on that too, _mon petit_."

The dinner continued amicably until Francis saw the state of his kitchen-"_Sacre bleu, mes CASSAROLES_!"-and ordered Arthur to scrub each pot and pan until they shone like mirrors. Grumbling but meek, Arthur pulled on the apron Francis threw at him and waded in.

By the time the last of the dishes done, it was nearing midnight. Arthur wearily dried the last of the knives and set the towel aside, slipping out of his apron and wandering out into the living room where he'd heard the telly come on before Francis had banished him to the kitchen.

The man was on the floor, head propped on a small pillow and apparently fast asleep. It occurred to Arthur to be mad...

But Francis looked so _good_, even beardy. He'd taken the tie out of his hair and the strands spread out around his chiseled face like a halo of gold. Arthur's fingers itched to touch them, stroke them away from those cheeks and kiss those barely parted lips until Francis woke, gave him that dirty smile of his-and-

And imagination failed him, as he had yet to get past second base with the man he was _probably_ dating. Almost certainly was dating.

Almost certainly was enough for a kiss.

Arthur had knelt down and his lips had barely brushed over the ripe softness that were Francis's lips when they suddenly curved under his mouth. Arthur jerked back as the man's eyes slitted open, and he smiled at him with the lazy sensuality of a cat.

"Sorry," Arthur felt compelled to mumble.

"_Cher_ Arthur," Francis murmured, sitting up as well. "Don't tell me that that was enough for you?"

Arthur felt flushed, too warm from the bare contact and the insinuating words. "Erm," he began, looking down at his knees. "If possible, a bit more...?"

"Then come here," Francis purred, voice like dark velvet, and without waiting captured Arthur's mouth with his own and proceeded to light every nerve the boy had on fire. Oh God, hot and wet and messy enough to make Arthur's blush go supernova. He had had virtually no experience of his own before this, and might have felt embarrassed at his ineptness had their kisses allowed any room for thought at all. Francis was just too good at this, he thought blurrily. As his headbeat pounded louder and was echoed by a second, more insistent beat between his legs he had the wild thought of flinging his arms around Francis's neck, overbalancing them back onto the floor and losing some of these clothes-

He moaned into the kiss and Francis chuckled, nipping lightly at his lower lip before breaking contact. Arthur swayed after him before he caught himself.

_I have such an indecent imagination..._

_... and no centimeters to back it up._

"No matter how much time passes, you have such a cute kiss," Francis whispered. He stretched, and Arthur watched the play of muscle under his shirt hungrily. "Oh! It's so late. Do you need a ride home?"

* * *

Francis was a truly a mystery. He kissed Arthur, teased him, called him fruity French pet names like '_charmeur_' and '_mignon_', wound him up into slippery knots of uneasy, all-consuming desire-and then drove him home and left him with a pat on the head, like a dog.

_Just because he kisses me, doesn't mean he likes me._

"He's about... ten years older, or something like that, right?" he mused aloud. "I'm still growing taller, but..."

But, three centimeters. Arthur yanked the covers up over his head and curled on his side. Another night, another mope. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to will his churning mind to settle.

_I'm not at the point where we can actually date. Be a couple._

_But he kisses me whenever I ask. Does that mean he's just... playing around with me?_

"IGGY!"

The shout nearly launched him into the stratosphere, and he choked on a scream as the first thing he saw were the lambent orange eyes of the family cat. He scrambled back until his back hit the wall, and as his night vision adjusted saw two identical silhouettes against the light from his open bedroom door.

"Bloody buggering hell, what are you two doing out of bed at this hour?" he yelled furiously. Alfred, the little monster, was squeezing the poor cat until its eyes bulged and giggling madly. Matthew at least looked apologetic.

"Sowwy, big brother. It was Alfwed-"

"Bloody buggery hell! Bloody buggery hell!" the imp sang happily.

Arthur blanched. "Oh, no. No no no."

"Bloody buggery!"

"Stop SAYING that, what if Mum-"

"BLOODY BUGGERIES~!"

"ALFRED-"

At that point, the beleaguered cat had had enough. With an ear-splitting scream of outrage, it clawed its way out of Alfred's vise-like grip and scrambled for the safety of the hallway.

There was a short two-second pause as the toddler stared at his scratched arms. "Ah-!" He looked up at Arthur in utter shock, tears beginning to run down his cheeks. "AH-!"

Matthew resolutely clapped his hands over his ears.

Alfred screamed, a pure, perfect, piercing note of agony that was one of his specialties. Ignoring the tinny ringing in his ears that probably signaled permanent damage, Arthur picked up the howling child and grabbed Matthew's hand, tugging him into the hall and to the bathroom, where band aids and kisses were liberally administered.

His mother, as always, was away on a shoot, but since the day he'd met Francis the hard ball of hurt and anger he'd felt at her absences had eased, had almost disappeared entirely. He owed him so much.

_This isn't just playing around. I just haven't reached that guy yet._

_But... even when I do, if I do, would he be mine?_

"I'll try confessing one more time," he decided aloud.

"Hrm?" Matthew mumbled, tucked into Arthur's bed. Alfred, on his left, kicked out in his sleep.

Alfred absently patted his downy head. "Shh... go to sleep, Matty."

He left them there, grabbing his jacket and cell on the way out.

... _the answer has probably changed._

_

* * *

_

Well, at least the lights were on. That was a good sign.

The rear access door had been propped open with a cinderblock, another good omen. How sad and pointless to have come all the way here, and not be able to get in.

Breath fogging around his head like smoke, Arthur gazed up in trepidation at the lit windows, hand on the frigid metal of the handle. The first time, alcohol and the strange weight of a day full of weirdness had carried him through to the blurted declaration. Cold and sober, could he say it again?

As he entered the mildly less arctic air of the stairwell, the sound of a door banging open and voices echoed down to him. One belonged to Francis. A brief flare of panic froze his feet to the treads and he fought the urge to duck back, instead leaning slowly over the middle railing to see up to the second-floor landing. Just in time, as it happened, to see framed in Francis's open doorway the spectacle of a another man apparently attempting to suck the Frenchman's tonsils out through his open mouth.

In much the same way that the conductor of a crashing train absorbs the exact design and colors of the graffiti on the wall he is about to hit, so Arthur took in all of the details: Francis, smiling, in that one pair of pajama bottoms with little naked mermaids and seashells. The mysterious man, shorter, white-haired but not old, cheeks flushed, singing "Love yoooou," in a German accent thick as batter and hanging off of Francis like a limpet. Francis, gently disentangling his arms and responding, "I know you do, you horrible drunkard. Until next week." Laughter, and "_Ja_, if you can stand to be away from my _awesomeness_ for that long!"

Then, Francis glancing down the stairs.

At this point, Arthur's body made the decision without his stupefied brain to leave. Quickly. He'd almost made it out the door, too, when Francis's voice reached him. "Arthur! ARTHUR! Wait!"

And then, of course, he could only stand there facing the door and wait for the damn frog and his German boytoy to come all the way down the stairs after him.

"Ooh, Frans, is this him?" the German said suddenly as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "It is, isn't it?"

"Gilbert, please do me the very large favor of leaving _immediatement, s'il te plait_," Francis said, with an edge.

"_Ja, ja_, I'll leave you," the German snickered, and slapped Arthur on the back as he pushed past to the door. "_Guten nacht, mein liebe_!"

From behind him, Francis asked, "Are you coming up?"

"... sure."

The next few awkward minutes found them facing each other across the kitchen table, Arthur studying the wood grain with great attention and Francis gazing meditatively at him, sprawled back in his chair and slowly sipping a mug of the coffee that the boy had refused.

"Is something the matter, _mon petit_? Coming here so late."

The electronic buzz of the overhead light was loud in the silence.

"Gilbert... he's just a drunken fool."

"... why are giving me that kind of excuse?"

Francis set the mug down with a sharp clunk. "Because, you... aren't you upset about something?"

Yes. He was. It burst from him, the virulent anger coiled in his gut surprising even him. "Is there anyone who wouldn't be upset, when they figured out they were just being played around with?"

Francis jerked back like he'd been slapped. "What? Playing?"

"Haven't you been playing with me this whole time? We...! You...! Do you _realize_ it's been a WHOLE YEAR since we first met?" Arthur yelled, eyes screwed shut. "Kissing... SAYING all those things you do... I know I have huge eyebrows and can't cook and can't speak your damn frog-language and I'm too young and short and just a student, but this is it! It's all I've got! And if it wasn't good enough you should have just, just, told me in the first place and not started anything, any of this! IF I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH YOU SHOULD HAVE-!"

Francis struck the tabletop with a closed fist, hard enough that the sound echoed like a gunshot through the apartment. Arthur was startled into silence, and to his utter horror felt wetness on his cheeks.

"What are you saying?" Francis asked, low and dangerously even. "Aren't you the one who's been playing with me?"

"What?" Arthur said blankly.

"Your 'love' seems fairly weak," the man said bluntly. "Do you really like me, _mon petit_? If you consider the fact that you have been coming here for an entire year and have yet to pursue anything beyond a kiss? You hardly touch me, when we do kiss. Even when I begin something, it feels like romancing a particularly shy glacier!"

"B-but," Arthur sniffled. "But!"

"'But'?" Francis quoted cruelly.

"BUT I'M STILL TWO CENTIMETERS SHORT!"

A pause.

"...eh? Two centimeters?"

"W-when I first confessed, y-you said I had to grow _three centimeters_ there_."_

"What? Where?"

"_There_."

"Oh. Ah!"

Arthur stared at him in complete consternation. "You forgot? I... I measured every day...!"

"Is... that so?" Francis said, voice quivering. His shoulders started shaking, and he hung his head down.

"Francis?" Arthur asked, concerned.

And with that, the other man was down for the count, laughing hugely while Arthur's confusion abated and pique grew. "_Trois centi- c'est impossible! C'est physiquement impossible! Oh la la, trois centimètre-!_"

"Impossible?" Arthur picked that much up, at least, from the stream of French that made it between bursts of laughter. He stood up from his seat, leaning forward across the table. "You mean, you weren't playing with me after all? Hey!"

With one last wheezy chuckle, the Frenchman closed a hand around his where it fisted on the table and looked up into Arthur's desperate gaze. "_Mon petit_, I am the type that gets tired of playing easily. I would not play for a whole year. From this view, I am very, how do you say? Pure of heart." He brought his hand to Arthur's face and the boy leaned shamelessly into the soft touch. Francis ruefully shook his head. "Truly, _cher_ Arthur, I've felt very flustered! I didn't understand your attitude at all. I thought, perhaps you do not like doing it?"

_I thought I hadn't reached him._

"Doing... it...? You mean, _doing it?_" Of _course_ he liked doing it!

Francis's slow smile was very... unpure. "Then, do you want...?"

"YES!" Arthur hurriedly exclaimed, and bruised their lips in his eagerness. Francis seemed to like it, arching into it with a little groan that flash-fried higher functions from Arthur's brain. He enjoyed the sensation. Moreover, he enjoyed the sensation of being free to wrap his arms around Francis's neck and crawl across the table into his lap without any stinging second thoughts about three centimeters.

That lasted for about five minutes.

"As for size... I guess _l'amour_ will make up for it?" Francis drawled, with a pointed stare at Arthur's crotch.

Arthur yanked his shirt down to cover his tented pants and glared. "That's the kind of thing I'd rather you not say, even if you think it!"

* * *

More Frog Bits:

- sacre bleu - my god

- casserole - pot/pan

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